


The Moaning

by JessieMay



Series: See Me [1]
Category: Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z
Genre: Anal, Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Incest, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Sleep, Somnophilia, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieMay/pseuds/JessieMay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moaning had been going on since the first night the two Saiyan's had arrived in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber. One night, Trunks decided to investigate it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The moaning was nightly and had been going on since Trunks and his father first arrived in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, but it only started bothering the younger Saiyan about two months into what would be a year-long stay.

The single bedchamber in the little temple was not large nor were the beds far apart from one another. As a result, Trunks heard everything that went on in the other bed, and if he made a sound, the other Saiyan would undoubtedly hear it too. Vegeta always fell asleep first though. And soon, Trunks stayed up intentionally so he could try to make out what his slumbering father would mumble next in his nightly stirrings.

After long days of what Trunks could only  _assume_  was arduous training in the void (the younger Saiyan had never actually seen his father’s routine because the man always went off on his own), Vegeta’s sleep was restful and evidently full of dreams.

It always began as soft murmurs, whispers and growls, as if the disciplined Saiyan’s mind was still off training in the void, picking up where his slacking body had left off. Trunks, lying in his own bed across the room, was usually too preoccupied with trying to get some rest of his own to pay any serious attention to the drowsy slurs. Occasionally Trunks made out a curse or a grumbled, “Kakarot,” but nothing to really concern him.  

It wasn’t until the night that his ears perked up to another name, a strange yet familiar name, that he started paying closer attention. It was spoken softly and in such a way that Trunks had serious doubts that it could have come from the sleeping Saiyan on the other side of the room at all.

He listened again for it but it never came. Instead, what followed was a series of breathy groans and wheezing gasps that almost made Trunks leap out of his bed to check if his father was alright. The sounds were so startling and uncharacteristic of the reserved older Saiyan that Trunks would risk waking him and pissing him off just to be sure he wasn’t suffering from the profound physical pain that his moaning would suggest.

The awful sounds died down however and eventually Trunks did fall asleep. The next day, he didn’t ask his father about it when he caught him in the dining area.  The man seemed just as haughty and disinterested as ever so Trunks took it as a sign of good health.

That was the first time it happened.

 

 

It was another few nights later when Trunks was kept awake in his bed again by the rising sounds coming from the adjacent canopy. He’d been easing back into a regular routine of irritable sleep when he heard the name again. It was as sudden and strange as the first time.

Trunks laid perfectly still in his bed as he waited and listened. He didn’t want to miss it this time. He needed to be sure.

Since the first occurrence, Trunks had only given it a little thought. He knew the name was familiar to him but it was a while before it finally dawned on him why. His former master and mentor, Gohan, hadn't been very close with Vegeta in his youth, but he'd told Trunks everything he knew because he'd understood that it meant a lot to the young half-Saiyan who never had a chance to know the man. Gohan had told Trunks that before Vegeta came to Earth he’d worked for a powerful galactic conqueror who destroyed the Saiyan planet and threatened to lay claim to the entire universe. Gohan said that Vegeta had turned against the conqueror when he'd joined their side and that was all he knew of their relationship.

Even with Gohan’s clipped descriptions of Vegeta, Trunks was able to gather that his father was not the most good-natured man-- not a _Goku_ by any stretch, about whom there were so many wild and colorful stories circulating in Trunks' time that he'd grown into a towering and impossible myth in Trunks' mind. At last meeting the Earth Saiyan in person had done little to shake him of the impression.

As a result of the vagueness surrounding his father however, the detail about him turning on the tyrant he'd served since boyhood was as much an indication of the tyrant's malevolence as it was of Vegeta’s treacherous nature, and Trunks found he liked his father less and less the more he learned of him.

The powerful conqueror in the story had a name and Gohan had mentioned it before, Trunks was sure. But he hadn’t been able to place it until just then, as his father gasped it once more in the next bed. _Frieza_. The sounds that followed did not quell and die down quickly as they had the first night Trunks had heard the name, but kept going, and evolved into something else. Now, Trunks heard not only groaning and retching breaths coming from the other canopy but what sounded like _pleas_. Trunks held his breath as his ears clung to the lilting sound of what he could only describe as begging.

The words, “stop,” and “no,” and, “please!” were becoming ever prevalent in the cacophony of calls. The bed across the room creaked and trembled and Trunks could only imagine from the sound of it that his father was jerking and twisting and thrashing all over the mattress, reducing his sheets to an unsalvageable tangle.

Finally, the room went still. Trunks had been so stunned by what he was hearing that he hadn't tracked how long it had gone on. It had seemed to last forever. When it ended, there were only soft grumbles and the whisper of flattened down as Vegeta turned dreamily on the thick comforter.

 

 

The next morning, Vegeta looked like he'd slept the night through. As usual, he didn't spare a glance at Trunks as they ate together at the table, though the lavender haired Saiyan snuck furtive glances often and enduringly at his father.

After breakfast, it had become their ritual to split up and venture out into the void to pursue their separate training routines. Trunks always tried to lag behind his silent father but it was Vegeta's custom to either tell him to get lost or to dash off in a blast without a word. As a result, Trunks eventually stopped trying to join his father, though he never stopped watching after the fleeting, blue-clad figure.

 _He shouldn't go out that far_ , he thought to himself one day as he squinted into the vague direction in which his father had bolted off. After a while, he turned away from the unassuming whiteness,  and opted instead to focus on his own training.

As Trunks built up blast after blast and cast them off into the nothing, he thought on the enigmatic Saiyan who didn't exist in his own time and wondered how much the man would be able to put out today after such a restless night.

 

 

But the nights didn't seem to get to Vegeta, not in the way they got to Trunks anyway. Every night the pure-blooded Saiyan rolled and toiled in his bed and Trunks sat in his own, both concerned and curious in equal measure until the noises subsided and they both settled into a sleep. And in the mornings, Trunks trained his eyes to the cold man, whose demeanor and sparse conversation revealed nothing.

After weeks of this unrelenting routine, Trunks asserted that he could no longer lie there listening to the haunting sounds echoing from the other bed. He rose out of the thick down covers and strode to the opposite side of the room. As he closed in on his father's bed however, his gait, which had started out wide and purposeful in his determination to at last get to the bottom of this exhausting mystery, had shrunk to a furtive, reluctant creep.

Trunks didn’t need to move the curtain aside to see the canopy's occupant through the mesh material. Vegeta was lying on his back, the blankets only covering him in theory; the frail sheets didn't stand a chance against the twisting and jerking Saiyan in their hold. Corners trailed over naked limbs here and wrapped futilely around an errant ankle there, but overall failed to contain the mostly bare and lively body in their midst.

So, as Trunks slowly came upon the canopy and looked in, he got the full view of damp chest and twitching muscles, the flipping head and arching back. The body turned over suddenly, bearing to Trunks the contoured back, beaded with moisture, and the sweat-dampened roots of dark hair on the nape of a strained neck. Trunks could see it all, but what was more, he could  _hear_ it all, and it was even clearer now that he wasn't hearing it from the other side of the room.

The deep moans, the quaking breaths, the shuddering sighs.

“No. N—not this,” came the hoarse voice sounding muffled against the pillows.

It was the pleading again. Trunks found it was only ever the pleading on the nights when he heard the name, when he heard "Frieza." 

Trunks watched the rolling, twitching body and how it arched and peaked. His eyes fell to the only parcel of clothing that covered the otherwise naked physique. It was a form-fitting pair of black briefs and while they may have effectively concealed the tone and shape of any other body, in this room and with the way Vegeta’s hips rose and cocked, Trunks could hardly look anywhere else.

“No, No.” Vegeta’s head burrowed deeper into the pillows.

Trunks pulled his eyes away. All this time, the way Vegeta had shouted and pleaded, the younger Saiyan had expected his father to be clenched up and doubled over in some imagined agony. But here, as the protests fell from his mouth and wore his throat dry and ragged, Vegeta’s body sang a completely unexpected tune.

His thighs parted as another wheezing gasp came out and his hips rose and rocked. The movements looked rhythmic, almost inviting to Trunks. He had never imagined seeing his father this way, not when he'd heard the stories of him in his own time and _certainly_ not after having met him in this one. It was absurd and backwards. The man had seemed to make it his business to push Trunks away ever since they'd first met, even after learning that Trunks was his son (perhaps even more so after that). All the while, all Trunks had wanted was to see him and to be near him the way a son and father are meant to be near one another. When Trunks had first traveled back and knew he would finally meet his father, he'd hoped beyond anything to embrace the man, to look into his eyes, to hear that he was loved and appreciated and that the fabled prince of Trunks’ childhood was proud of him. Now, after having finally met Vegeta and experienced the full extent of his affection, Trunks would be ecstatic to receive a pat on the back. Any sort of acknowledgment would be welcome, really. Trunks longed for it beyond reason. He wanted Vegeta to want him there with him, to care for him and need him the way Trunks needed and cared for him. And yet he was brushed off time and again.

He'd thought, perhaps foolishly, that this time in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber would be just what their relationship needed, that the time to themselves would allow Trunks to finally break through the barrier between them. As time passed in the chamber however, Vegeta was as distant and cold as ever and Trunks had all but given up hope that his father would ever open up to him.

Yet here he was, the same man who'd sat rigidly across from him that morning and only glanced up once to express his irritation-- the _same man--_ was now lying before him more open and needy and unguarded than Trunks had ever seen him. He was bare in every sense. The man who had not spared him a word all day was now crying out in abandon. It was laughable and impossible and wonderful.

And yet Trunks was afraid. He was afraid he would never see his father this way again and he didn’t want to lose this chance.

Trunks felt himself reaching out a trembling hand to the over-heated skin.

He would be there for him. Trunks would be there for his father the way Vegeta had never been there for him.

Perhaps Vegeta really did want to be this close with Trunks but was too proud to say it aloud, Trunks reasoned to himself as he drew nearer. Perhaps in his sleep, Vegeta was released from his imprisoning pride and free to express himself more honestly.

Trunks’ hands hovered over Vegeta’s glistening back for a while before he took the plunge. Biting down on his lip, Trunks waited for his father to wake and scream at him.

It didn’t happen.

There was a light tremor in the man’s shoulders and his moans quelled for only a moment, but he didn't wake. The guttural wailing, the gyrating of his body, it all went on, undeterred by Trunks’ touch.

The younger Saiyan felt emboldened then and placed his other hand down next to the first. He slid them down his father’s back, skipped over the scant undergarments and trailed down the thighs. He noticed that Vegeta’s movements seemed to follow his touch. His body rolled and rocked as if trying not to break the contact. Like a cat, Vegeta arched up to follow Trunks' tickling fingers. It dawned on Trunks that his father enjoyed the attention.

The lucid Saiyan couldn’t help feeling relieved and happy. He was finally able to give his father pleasure. He was making him feel good. It was a new and pleasant feeling for Trunks, who usually felt like little more than an inconvenience to his father.

He wondered, as his fingers teased up and down the sleeping man’s thighs and grazed over his calves, if he could try something else. Although the gentle strokes didn’t seem to rouse the man, Vegeta's open reactions indicated that the touch still registered in his mind. Still a little uncertain, Trunks opened his mouth and said the only thing he could think of: “Does that feel good?”

He waited.

If Vegeta understood it, he didn’t give more than a heaving grunt. He didn’t wake up either though, so Trunks tried again.

“Do you like how I’m touching you?” he said and his hands slid up the backsides of Vegeta’s thighs, making the muscles jump beneath the perspiring skin.

“Stop,” Vegeta said and it sounded like it was through gritted teeth.

Trunks froze, unsure if the man was still dreaming or if he really was addressing him. He'd said it sternly enough. Still, Trunks looked at the body beneath him, observing how it still keened and pressed against his hand needily, and decided to persist.

Leaning over the bed, the younger Saiyan began kneading the muscled thighs, braver now and determined. “But it looks like you like it. Are you sure you want me to stop?”

He got to a spot on his upper inner thighs that made Vegeta groan long and breathily. Trunks bore his thumbs in harder in a wicked experiment.

Was this the secret to his father then? Pretending to be uninterested in the very thing he wanted? If that was the case then the next time Vegeta tried to brush him off to train on his own, Trunks was going to blast right off after him.

Vegeta’s head had slid out of the pillows at some point and Trunks could now hear his moans unmuffled as well as see the profile of his face.

Hovering over his father’s down–turned body, Trunks paused. He would not have expected it but Vegeta’s expression eluded as much to the turmoil of his mind as his body did. In that, it looked completely lax and almost wanton as if he were truly enjoying it. Trunks could see the slightest gleam of his eyes through tiny slits in his eyelids. He was still sleeping but looked like he could have also been awake and in a trace. A pleasure-induced trance.

That was it, Trunks realized. The man looked rapturous. Whatever he was dreaming, it was no torture scene or failed battle, like his grunts and protests suggested.

So, the begging, the _pleas_ , had to be false. His father had to be enjoying this but even in his sleep, would not allow himself to be so vulnerable. It was clear that Trunks had to continue.

The half-Saiyan leaned over his father’s writhing form, watching him, sliding his hands over him and adding more pressure where the sleeping man seemed to react the most.

The areas of Vegeta’s body that he'd skimmed over had begun tensing and rising as if pining for attention. The sleeping Saiyan’s hips were high, and his round ass rocked and nudged against Trunks where he knelt between his thighs.

Trunks realized finally that Vegeta wanted to be touched there, though he was too proud to beg. It was intimate and unknown to Trunks but he wanted to do it. His father needed it. Vegeta was writhing and yipping and brimming with tension and he needed Trunks to ease that tension. And Trunks badly wanted to give his father what he needed. He felt himself grinding against the man’s thinly clothed backside. He did it slowly and evenly, watching Vegeta’s twitching facial expressions all the while.

“No, no. D--Don’t,” Vegeta urged, even as his thighs parted.

“It’s alright,” Trunks soothed and his own breaths were coming harder with the excitement. “You don’t need to pretend with me. I know what you want and I want to give it to you, father.”

Vegeta protested more feebly and Trunks leaned down to nuzzle his neck.

He felt his father’s firm mounds pushing back into him in time with the rocking of his own hips, and felt closer to his father than ever before. It was intoxicating. The slighter man was bending and grunting and clutching the tortured sheets desperately. Suddenly, there was a broken howl and Vegeta's compact body clenched and braced, then went very still.

Trunks looked up into his father’s face and saw the line of tears brimming his sleep-drunk eyes. They beaded in his lashes for a moment before streaming downward to be absorbed in the sheets.

Trunks froze.

“Father,” he said.

He waited for Vegeta to open his eyes then, to turn to Trunks scowling and see what he’d done. The older Saiyan's eyes would be filled with all the hatred and detachment that Trunks feared most from the man. Thus, Trunks would be crushed beneath the weighty exposure of the horror he'd committed, and never again hope of feeling his father's acceptance.

But Vegeta's eyes stayed closed. From deep in his throat came a long deflating sound like the release of a breath he’d been holding for a long time. His brow eased and every muscle in his body seemed to relax.

The man appeared to be solidly sleeping and Trunks, who wasn’t breathing himself, was confused.

He didn't know what inspired him to do it but slowly, the lavender-haired Saiyan slid his hand beneath Vegeta’s hips. Gently grazing the elastic fabric of the man’s briefs, he felt a slickness coat his fingers.

 

 

 

The next morning Trunks didn't look at Vegeta but stared down at his food. He couldn’t tell if his father was behaving strangely and was afraid to find out. Without a word to the older Saiyan, Trunks quickly finished his breakfast and left to train.

For the first time, Trunks was fleeing from his father.

He didn’t think Vegeta knew what had happened the previous night but was sure it was written all over his face, and Vegeta needed only to look at him to see it. For once, Trunks was glad that his father barely acknowledged him.

Trunks stayed away most of the day and returned to the temple much later than normal. When he arrived back, Vegeta had already eaten and was showering. Trunks carefully crept past the washroom, skipping his own shower and retiring to his bed.

 

 

 

The next few nights, Trunks tried desperately to go to sleep before the moaning started but his anxiety only kept him more alert. When it did start, Trunks didn’t get up again to investigate his father’s bed but instead stayed in his own and suffered the sounds. He tried to focus on his own breathing, tried to smother his ears with pillows, but the guttural grunts only seemed to grow louder as the hour grew later.  The worst thing was the visions that the sounds would conjure without his consent.

After seeing the way his father contorted and spread himself, Trunks couldn’t forget the explicit display. And When Vegeta started moaning again, Trunks needed only to close his eyes and there it was again, like a looping film in his head.

 

 

 

 

His haunted nights were followed by unforgiving days of training, in which he always lamented the lost sleep.

Vegeta would find his son resting on the patio some days and frown.

“Done so soon?”

“I, uh, guess I didn’t sleep so well last night. I’m feeling kind of tired.”

Vegeta’s mouth twitched and he didn’t attempt to hide his disgust before flying off into the void.

 

 

 

Every day, Trunks regretted ever having gotten out of his bed to investigate the moaning that night. He should have ignored it like all the other nights. He hadn’t been able to look at his father the same since, and feared he never would again.

 

 

 

One day, Trunks awoke before Vegeta because he couldn’t endure another disapproving look from his father for having overslept. But as the groggy half-Saiyan slipped silently off of his mattress, he heard the familiar sounds coming from the other side of the room.

Trunks moved closer to the source.

It was unusual for the dreams to drag on to morning and Trunks wondered if it was the same one with Frieza.

As he peaked into the thin canopy veil, he saw the curling of a bare back and the curve of muscled hips grinding deeply into the mattress. Suddenly, the hips clenched and a breath caught and the tense body went still.

Shortly after, Vegeta began to rouse. Slowly, he rolled over to get out of bed. 

“What is it, boy?” he said, turning to where Trunks stood in the middle of the room.

At that moment, Trunks realized simultaneously that he’d been watching Vegeta sleep again and that Vegeta was now fully awake and staring at him.

The startled half-Saiyan shook his head and opened his mouth to say something hurriedly but then his eyes trailed down the bare body rising from the bed and onto the newly uncovered sheets and his voice failed him.

There, on the ruffled cotton, was a faint but undeniable dark shape. The small stain was just below where his hips had been. 

“Nothing,” Trunks said and Vegeta cocked a brow.

 

 

 

The day went on normally after that. They ate silently and trained separately. Trunks didn’t pry his father for conversation at the table and didn’t try to train with him. His mind was occupied.

Along with the damp spot on the bed sheets, Trunks had also noticed the defined mound in the crotch of Vegeta’s briefs.

It dawned on Trunks that Vegeta hadn't behaved strangely after the night Trunks had gone to his bed because nothing strange had happened as far as the pure-blooded Saiyan was concerned. He not only had the dreams regularly, but apparently ejaculated from them regularly as well. So, waking up to shorts soiled with his own semen was effectively not a strange occurrence.

 

 

 

Trunks didn't dread the following night the way he’d dreaded every other night since first visiting his father's bed. Instead, he saw it as an opportunity.

Once the moaning started an hour or so after the two sole occupants of the time chamber retired to their separate beds, Trunks, having been patiently listening for the right time, rose fluidly from his bed and crossed the room.

He found his father tumbling in the sheets, half-naked and deep in his dreams. Trunks didn't hesitate this time but moved the curtain aside and climbed smoothly into the bed.

He took his time, stroking his father's warm skin and soothing him. He spoke occasionally and even thought Vegeta responded to him sometimes. It was unfortunate that he kept saying “Frieza,” though. Trunks had hoped he might reach him through his dream and Vegeta would somehow recognize his presence and respond to him directly. Trunks would settle for this for now though, and maybe with time Vegeta would begin to know his son's touch.

When Vegeta came, it was as sudden and unexpected as the first time. Trunks had not been trying to stimulate him that way and hadn't even been touching him there, but his slight body suddenly convulsed and clung to the larger Saiyan, and in an instant he was coming in his son's arms. Trunks knew, as he watched the shuddering eyelashes and gasping mouth and felt the needily pawing hands that he would come back again the next night.

And he did. The following night, he crept into his father’s bed and rubbed him until he came. The night after that, he did the same.

It became a new routine. By day, Vegeta scowled and ignored him, but by night, the same cold man was warm putty in Trunks’ hands, spilling his milky seed all over himself and crying out with need as he clung to Trunks' anchoring body, as if it was the only think that kept him from bursting out of his skin.

 

 

 

“Have I got something on my face, boy?”

Trunks shook his head. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring. He went back to untying his boots, only looking up again once Vegeta had turned away. The older Saiyan tied his towel more securely around his waist and Trunks stole a slanted glance at the flashes of exposed skin that would unfurl and warm for him later.

It was a double life.

In the night, Trunks would crawl into his father’s bed and find the dozing Saiyan in the throes of his vivid dreams. He kneaded and plied him until he was rocking back and begging unconvincingly for him to stop.

The younger Saiyan held Vegeta against his chest and let his hands roam over the smaller frame. His eager hands dove between Vegeta’s open thighs and found him already hard and dribbling. Trunks didn’t keep his father waiting.

“Please,” Vegeta would say.

“Please what?” Trunks would respond.

Vegeta's voice trailed off into inaudible murmurs and gasps.

“Tell me you want it,” Trunks urged in his ear, “I know you do.”

“No.”

“Let me give it to you.”

Vegeta gasped and choked. Trunks let him collapse on the mattress as he broke into orgasmic tremors. In these moments when Vegeta was more open and honest than Trunks had ever seen him, he was beautiful. It was almost worth the long days of mocking jabs and disgusted glances and cold neglect. In these fleeting moments, Vegeta was all his own and Trunks could be near him and touch him and make him feel good and he wouldn’t push Trunks away. It gave the young Saiyan another idea.

“Was that good?” He asked one night, as the Saiyan prince rode the calming post-orgasmic waves and settled dozily into the sheets.

Vegeta lay face-down and unresponsive save for a slight residual rolling in his lower half. Trunks nudged him a little more with his hips, coaxing more reluctant responses from the pliant body.

Trunks untied his own pants, then slid Vegeta’s briefs down below his muscled gluts. At this point, the recovering Saiyan began shifting uneasily.

“Oh don’t fight me now,” Trunks soothed. “Not me.”

He surprised himself with how hard he was and how much he ached for this. He wanted to plunge straight into the man who was his father in a different life and fill him up. He steadied himself and slid his fingers inside the tight, tense opening. It was something he never thought he would do in this dimension nor any other, but he did it as smoothly and naturally as sheathing his sword.

Small staccato grunts came from Vegeta then as the fingers worked in and out of him. He was drunk from his fresh orgasm and pliant to the touch. There was still resistance in his words though. There always would be. He just _would_ _not_ confess that he wanted Trunks-- _needed_ Trunks to do this to him, to release him from the binds of his pride.

Trunks would do it for him anyway, without waiting for Vegeta to ask. He would do it even knowing Vegeta wouldn’t thank him for it or even acknowledge it later. The one thing that gave Trunks pause was when the dozing man spoke again.

“Fr—Frieza!”

Trunks’ fingers slowed in their prying.

It was not even him in Vegeta’s dreams. As he gave Vegeta this freeing pleasure, for which he would be neither thanked nor remembered in Vegeta's waking hours, Trunks was hit with another demoralizing truth— he wouldn’t be credited for it in Vegeta’s dreams either.

Trunks made the decision then that if it wasn’t going to mean anything later and it clearly didn't mean anything now, then he would make the most of it. He would make it count— for himself.

With a punishing thrust, he pressed inside his father, his father who shunned him and scolded him and dreamt of some long-dead tyrant in place of him.

It should have woken the unsuspecting Saiyan. Instead, Vegeta only gaped as if a moan was caught in his throat— or a scream.

Trunks didn’t stop though. He hadn’t even waited to see if Vegeta had been roused when he first entered, he was fully invested in his task. He would take his father and maybe this time the blind bastard would remember it in the morning. He would remember that it was Trunks who did it for him, took him off his burdensome pedestal and brought him down, hard.

He fucked him like he didn’t care if he woke up and part of him really wanted him to. Part of him wanted Vegeta’s eyes to open and see that it was really Trunks doing  this, taking him and giving him what he needed, not this _Freiza,_ whose name was always on his quivering lips. Then he wouldn’t scowl at Trunks anymore, he wouldn’t push him away, he wouldn’t be disappointed. Then he would know that it was Trunks who made him into this spasmodic heap of open need that he was now. He would have to see Trunks then.   

Trunks put all of his regret and resentment behind his punishing thrusts. It was rough and feral and he didn’t even suppress his own impassioned grunts. Vegeta was propped up on his knees and his head and arms were tangled in the sheets. He was completely at Trunks’ ruthless disposal. He could only cry out hoarsely as his son fucked him with abandon. 

 

 

 

The next morning, Trunks watched his father rise from bed. He wasn’t discrete, but stared openly as the older Saiyan pulled himself to his feet.

There was a slight pause as Vegeta moved to straighten himself, and Trunks could see the twinge of discomfort in his features. Then Vegeta caught his son’s eyes on him and asked the younger Saiyan what he was staring at.

His skin-hugging shorts were damp in the crotch again and Trunks guessed by the new and subtle stiffness in the man’s walk that he had some internal pain as well. But as usual nothing was spoken about it.

 

 

 

Trunks wondered as they sat across from each other with their breakfasts, what his father thought happened last night. Did he think he was just sore from some obscure pulled muscle in yesterday’s training?

Trunks watched his father’s every shift and twitch, loving each one, knowing that he and what he'd done the previous night had been the cause of it.

At the same time, Trunks had a bitter realization. Once again, he'd gone unnoticed. He'd given his father another night of reprieve from his condemning pride, and yet here they were again in detached silence, his father as cold and uncaring as if Trunks had done nothing at all.

 

 

 

Trunks fucked Vegeta again that night. It was as rough as the previous night and probably rougher. Now that he knew what his father could take, he was exhilarated by the possibilities. He tried more things.

He kissed his father—everywhere. His tongue tasted every plane he could reach, relishing in the soft, huffing moans his invasions evoked.

He pushed Vegeta’s thick thighs up to his chest and licked between the shapely mounds of his ass. He even dove inside the exposed pucker, wrenching a sharp, alarmed gasp from his father's hoarse throat.

He hoped Vegeta would feel the slickness of his saliva deep inside him tomorrow. And when he fucked him after that, he hoped his semen would drip out of Vegeta’s asshole as he trained. He would love to know how his father justified _that_ to himself. Or was that something he would just ignore as well, along with his wet shorts and the dreams. Would it just be accepted as another part of life, another residual side effect of whatever the hell happened all those years ago?

Gods, what horrendous acts could have occurred beneath the tyrant, Frieza, that they haunted his father nightly to this day? What Trunks would give to see in his father’s head.

Vegeta's muscles trembled and twitched and his mouth went slack, revealing his obvious pleasure at what was happening both in and out of his dream, but he still resisted with his pleas and curses. It was an anomaly.

In the end it didn’t really matter what it all meant, Trunks thought as he ground his hips into the upturned ass beneath him. His father would never tell him anyway. It was best not to wonder. He held his cock deep inside the quivering orifice until he could see Vegeta’s eyes twitch and roll beneath the lids, then he reinvigorating his pitiless pace.

The nights Trunks visited his father had become less of a cherished bonding experience and more of a lumbering pastime through which to take out the frustrations of the day. It was not a happy coincidence that his partner in the activity was also the very source of his frustrations.

He fucked Vegeta bitterly and more and more to see the pained expressions twist his sleeping face. He no longer took solace in giving his father pleasure. Instead, he needed to give him pain, make him feel in his body what Trunks felt in his heart.

And in the mornings when Trunks caught the subtle stiffness in his father’s walk and the wince when he sat, he had to suppress a smile.

He hated his father. Hated him for not loving him, for taking all the love Trunks had to offer and giving none in return.

It made Trunks numb.

 

 

One day, nearly eight months into their year-long stay in the chamber, Trunks stopped going to his father’s bed.

Instead, he lay in his own, staring at the ceiling, tuning out the deep gasping moans coming from across the room until he fell asleep.

If his father noticed that Trunks stopped going to his bed, he showed it as much as when Trunks had started the nightly visits. In that, he carried on as usual. And Trunks, who didn’t think it was possible, felt even more depressed about what little impression he’d apparently made on his father. After what was months of sharing a bed and embrace with his son, Vegeta didn’t seem to notice Trunks’ sudden absence at all.

Trunks hated him even more.

One day, he found his father out in the void.

 

_To be continued._


	2. Lasting Impression

 

There was mild surprise in the older man’s face when he saw him, then frustration. He told Trunks to leave.

Trunks didn’t.

Vegeta powered up and flew away.

Trunks followed.

Vegeta cursed at the other Saiyan and threw a blast.

Trunks deflected it.

“So you want a real training session for a change, boy?” Vegeta spat finally, when it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to shake off the persistent demi-Saiyan.

Trunks stared at him.

The odd presence of the lavender-haired Saiyan was disquieting to Vegeta but he hid his uneasiness in a snarl and charged forward in a head-on attack. This would show the brat that he wasn’t ready to trade blows with a true Saiyan.

Trunks evaded the fists and kicks with an ease that frustrated his father even more, and when Trunks powered up at last, revealing his true and unbridled energy, it came as such a shock to Vegeta that he could only stare for several seconds in disbelief.

Then Trunks attacked.

Before that point, it hadn't been totally clear to Vegeta exactly how powerful his son had grown in their time in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber. In fact, he'd assumed that he'd long surpassed the younger Saiyan.

In fact, Trunks was much stronger.

 

 

 

Vegeta landed in a smoking heap on the white ground, his Saiyan armor in tatters and limbs twitching. He was so out of it, he didn’t protest when Trunks took his arm over his shoulder and flew them back to the temple.

Vegeta was coherent as Trunks walked them to the bedchamber. He seethed and winced but didn’t resist as Trunks sat him down on the bed.

“You—filthy half-breed!” The beaten Saiyan hisses, eyes only slits in his bodily pain. 

Trunks, who was sliding Vegeta’s boots off, paused only a moment to frown up at his belligerent father before moving to the second boot.

When both boots were removed, Trunks lifted the older man to his feet and held him propped against himself to remove the cracked upper portion of his armor. Vegeta gritted his teeth as his arms were lifted and the tight blue shirt was pulled over his head.

Next were the pants. Trunks took Vegeta’s hands and placed them on his own shoulders to steady the weakened man while he knelt to begin pulling the shredded spandex down the shaky thighs.

“How did you—where did you--” Vegeta gritted out, barely registering Trunks’ hands around his ankles, alternately lifting each foot to slide the crumpled pants free.

Trunks didn’t answer but rose to his feet again. When his father began to sway and lose balance, he caught him easily and laid him gently down onto the bed.

“Don’t! You bastard, how did you—“

Trunks stared down at the tense, scuffed body, now bare except for the scant black shorts, of which Vegeta must have owned dozens. At that moment, Vegeta looked so vulnerable, so weakened and stripped in mind and body.

“What are you doing?”

“Tell me, father,” Trunks said at last, as he lifted his own shirt over his head. “Is it easier to train now that you don’t have my cum leaking out of you?”

Vegeta’s eyes bulged.

“W-what did you say?”

Trunks slid onto the bed on top of his father as the stunned man gaped up at him. The battered and dazed Saiyan was so shocked by the sudden closeness, the rest of his protests seemed to dissolve in his throat.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why your ass was so sore all those mornings? Or did you just think it was from training?” He smiled slyly at his father’s expression.

“What are you—“ Vegeta began pushing at Trunks’ chest with battle-shocked limbs.

“I fucked you so many times I can’t even count. You just slept right through it though. What did Freiza do to you that you can just sleep through that?”

Vegeta looked outraged and tried to slide out from beneath his ardent son. Trunks pushed him down wearily.

“Don’t bother.”

He held both of Vegeta’s wrists to the mattress and hovered over him. In Vegeta’s weakened state, Trunks was able to easily pry his thighs apart with a knee and settle between them.

“You’re really fucked up, you know that,” he said into Vegeta’s snarling face. “You wake up every morning covered in your own cum, you still can’t face it."

Vegeta was powering up beneath him but even if the full-blooded Saiyan was wholly recovered, he would have been no match for Trunks.

“You don’t have to pretend, Father. I understand now.”

“What are you blabbering about? You crazy... Get off of me!”

Trunks’ free hand slid down the fighting body, fingers gentle and lingering as they followed every dip and curve of muscle, quickly finding paths and nooks that drew reluctant responses from the pinned Saiyan.     

Vegeta’s body began trembling sooner than Trunks predicted but he was not disappointed.

“Get your filthy hands off of me, you half-breed —“

Trunks shushed him softly and Vegeta gaped.

“Look at your body, Father. You can act like you don’t want my hands on you but your body...” Trunks leaned down and flicked his tongue across a pert nipple causing a wave of electricity to pass through Vegeta’s frame, “I know what it likes. I know what it needs.”

Vegeta gasped suddenly as Trunks hand disappeared beneath the hem of his shorts.

“Please don’t pretend anymore, Father. You don’t have to with me.”

“S-stop this. Do you– know what you’re doing, boy?“

“I’m not Frieza,” Trunks urged, and Vegeta’s eyes flashed at the name. “I won’t hurt you or humiliate you or whatever it is he did to make you the way you are.”

“Sh-shut up! What do you know about—anything!” He said between stifled grunts.

Trunks hand was sure and knowing.

“I don’t know what happened to you but I can tell you, I’m not like that. I love you, Father. I just want…” Trunks trailed off. What did he want? Vegeta gasped when Trunks' hand squeezed just the right way.

Vegeta was panting, his brow was gleaming with sweat and his eyes were dark slits. Slowly, his struggles were subsiding into feeble tremors.

Trunks fingers slid further down to another spot they also knew well and Vegeta looked away, faced flushed and damp.

“Trunks, no,” he lamented.

Trunks fingers stopped then. The name— _his name—_  it was so new and the younger Saiyan realized he’d never heard it from his father in this way. It was a beautiful and halting sound. Part of him thought he really would stop then. Yet there was something in Vegeta’s averted gaze and the way his struggles had quietly abated that gave Trunks pause. He couldn’t identify it for a moment what it was he saw in his father, then suddenly, it struck him.

It was resignation. Defeat.

Was this what Freiza had done? Defeat him then claim his spoils? Was this the ultimate repercussion Vegeta associated with loss? Was this what drove his father to seek further planes of strength, to surmount higher and higher peaks of power? Was it so he would never again be on the losing end of a battle and have to yield in this way to a stronger warrior? Was it Trunks now, taking his due winnings from the Saiyan Prince, who was triumphed once again? 

He slid his hand out of the spandex shorts. Vegeta’s glistening eyes rose to meet his. Instead of releasing his father however, Trunks grabbed a fistful of the clinging undergarments and tore them away entirely.

Vegeta’s eyes went wide as he looked directly at him, only at him.

Trunks didn’t want to be another ghost in Vegeta’s nightmares, but maybe Frieza was onto something. Maybe he knew how to get to the prince, how to claim him entirely.

Was this the way to get through to his father? There was no fixing fucked-up, and playing the devoted son certainly wasn’t getting him anywhere. Maybe this was how he would finally earn his father’s respect, his affection— by taking it.

Vegeta’s thighs where rigid and taught but Trunks shoved between them, ignoring the hitch in Vegeta’s breath. He didn’t prepare his father for the intrusion; The older Saiyan had taken enough cock in his life to keep him nice and stretched. Trunks didn’t truly believe that but he enjoyed the look on Vegeta's face when he said it aloud.

He shoved in while Vegeta was still reeling from the crude comment and his dark eyes went large and dilated.   

“That’s it, father, look at me.” Trunks immediately set a hard pace, strokes full and unrelenting.

Vegeta shuddered every time Trunks bottomed out and his eye-lids grew steadily heavier. The raven-haired Saiyan tried to turn away as his body took every quaking blow but Trunks used the hand that wasn’t restraining Vegeta’s wrists to wrap around the older Saiyan’s throat. He didn’t constrict air-flow but he wasn't gentle either. He forced Vegeta’s attention forward.

“Watch me while I fuck you, father.”

Vegeta grunted and bared his teeth.

Trunks smiled into the snarling face. There was no going back now. He dropped all of his tenderness. Vegeta wouldn’t take any of it anyway. But as he humiliated and abused and penetrated the full-blooded Saiyan, Vegeta’s hard cock leaked and bounced between their bodies, growing heavier by the second.

"How shameful," Trunks observed. "The prince of Saiyans getting off on his own degradation. Enjoying getting put in his place." He emphasized the point with hard, bearing thrusts. "You're so filthy, father. And I'm the only one who sees it."

Suddenly, something occurred to Trunks and he stopped. _Was_ he the only one?

He studied Vegeta's brightly burning face. The older Saiyan seemed to be focusing all of his energy on not coming. 

Maybe Frieza wasn't the sole teacher of Vegeta's lessons of defeat. After all, Frieza's name wasn't the only one that Trunks heard in the night.

"Did Goku do this after he beat you?"  

Vegeta gaped up at him in a hybrid of shock and disgust. 

"No," Trunks defected, falling back into his rhythm with no small amount of relief. "He's too honorable. I bet you wanted it though. Wanted him to fuck you like Frieza used to?""

“B-bastard,” Vegeta choked.

Trunks laughed and abruptly withdrew from Vegeta’s body. The Saiyan prince was not prepared and made a sound like the air had been pulled out of him too.

The younger Saiyan looked down at the trembling, traumatized orifice and then up at Vegeta, whose face flushed more deeply than before. Trunks pushed one of Vegeta’s thighs into his chest to get a better look at his work. The lewd exposure was doing wonders to Vegeta’s pride. The older Saiyan was trying to look away again but Trunks tightened his hold on his throat with his other hand to keep the man's attention. Still, Vegeta’s cock was throbbing and swollen.

Suddenly, Trunks flipped Vegeta over onto his stomach and plunged into him again without a moment’s pause. Vegeta actually screamed at the sudden breach.

“This is your favorite position, father.” It wasn’t a question. He reinvigorated his pace without giving Vegeta time to accommodate it. “I’ve made you come countless times like this without even touching you.”

Vegeta gargled a moan.

“This is how you’re meant to be, isn’t it father? Fucked like a dog?”

Vegeta tried to hold himself up on shaky limbs but collapsed flat as Trunks continued to piston into him, hips meeting muscled ass in loud, hard slaps.

Trunks hadn't realized in his fury, that he’d gone Super Saiyan, but when he did, he didn’t curb his force as he plundered his father, but kept the steady rhythm.

Vegeta was delirious where he lay and took the punishing pace. He didn’t curse or beg Trunks to stop, as he didn’t seem capable of forming words anymore, but sobbed openly, mouth hanging agape and eyes rolled back. Despite his evidently mindless state, he hadn't completely blacked out. The indications of his lucidity were subtle but rewarding to Trunks: There was the way his fingers gripped and tugged at the sheets when Trunks changed angles, the intentional rise of his hips so Trunks could keep hitting that perfect spot, and lastly-- Trunks’ favorite-- the electric, clinging spasms of the older Saiyan's insides around his submerged cock every time another orgasm wracked his slighter frame.  

“How many times is that now, father,” the demi-Saiyan asked, expecting no response.

Vegeta gurgled incoherently as Trunks lifted his limp body up and held him upright against his chest.  It was a new position and looked like a gentle embrace but what he did next was anything but. He dropped the Saiyan prince down hard on his cock, leaving him no choice but to be filled to the hilt in one swift motion.

Vegeta’s head fell drunkenly back onto his son’s shoulder as he was bounced violently like a doll on the unrelenting appendage, his own fleshy cock bouncing obnoxiously in the air.

Trunks had orgasmed some number of times as well but didn’t allow it to slow him. He would fill up his father until he popped, until he couldn’t even crawl away from him and could only lay splayed and lifeless while Trunks' come oozed out in a lake around his depleted, sex-drunk body.

 

 

 

When Trunks did finish, he laid his father’s smaller frame down on the damp sheets. They were just short of soaked from the sweat and come (both Vegeta’s and Trunks’) and tears (Vegeta’s alone).  The older Saiyan would surely pass out within seconds of Trunks leaving him but he wouldn’t dream. And when he woke— if he’d ejaculated again in his sleep— the new stain would be unrecognizable amidst the dozens already populating the ruined sheets. What was certain was that he would remember Trunks.

Trunks went to sleep in his own bed and didn’t fear the morning. He would look his father in the eye, and for once see recognition.

 

 

 

The next day, Trunks awoke after his father.

Vegeta didn’t look at him but somehow this time it didn’t leave Trunks feeling invisible. It was an intentional evasion, Trunks knew, and the silence was palpable. It wasn’t the silence of before that made Trunks think that his father was pretending he wasn’t there. It was entirely separate. It was clear to Trunks that Vegeta was thinking of nothing else _but_  Trunks.

At breakfast as Trunks eyed the smaller man freely and without restraint, something that was also new, he realized that he could take his father again there, hold his head down against the table and tear away his training suit. He could do it right there and maybe Vegeta would be so shamed from his complete defeat the day before that he wouldn’t fight. Maybe Trunks would take Vegeta anytime the urge hit him from that point on.

But he didn’t move. He finished his breakfast and both Saiyans left to train.

Trunks watched Vegeta take off again in the opposite direction and felt the familiar pull to follow him, but he let that too pass.

Over the following days, Trunks didn't seek out his father again. He sensed that his father was expecting it though. At night when they went to their separate sides of the room, he saw the strain in his father’s back, the beading sweat as he undressed. He would climb stiffly into his bed, careful to avoid looking in Trunks’ direction. Trunks could've taken him then too but he didn’t.

Days later, he found Vegeta in the bathing rooms and the two stared at each other for a moment until Vegeta stiffened and covered himself. He left with his jaw clenched. Trunks didn’t stop him.

There were a number of times Trunks could have made another move, cemented his dominance, but he let them all pass. Vegeta too seemed to be anticipating something. Every morning, he awoke with a look of slow dawning, surprised that nothing had happened in the night. He would meet Trunks’ eyes with a furtive suspicion, as if wondering if his son was planning something, biding his time for when Vegeta would least expect another attack.

In truth, Trunks was planning nothing. It seemed he had gotten it out of his system. He knew now what it meant to have power over his father, to finally be seen. It wasn’t bad and it wasn’t good. It just was.  

 

 

 

It was a month before their year-long stay in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber would come to an end when Trunks was lying in his own bed after a routine day of eating, training, and watching his father move warily around him. He now laid awake, listening absently to his father stirring across the room.

Although the dreams had ceased for a short time after Trunks’ confronted Vegeta, they eventually started up again and had returned as a nightly reoccurrence. Trunks lay awake sometimes, just listening to it. Occasionally, he heard an errant “Frieza,” or even an off-hand “Kakarot.” He heard groans, moans, hisses and sighs. All the usual.

Tonight was no different.

The sounds coming from the opposite canopy were all among the typical litany of nightly calls. Trunks only idly listened, already half-asleep. But when he heard a croaked,“Trunks,” his blue eyes shot open.

There were more deep moans and the sound of sifting sheets.

Trunks went perfectly still and didn't inhale.

There were deep, dragging moans and the Saiyan name, clearer now, came again. Then came the sound of heavy, desperate breathing and a squeaking of the bed frames as though Vegeta were reenacting the hard fucking he'd received that day weeks ago and Trunks could picture too easily in his head that pert ass in the air imitating the position of taking Trunks’ merciless pistoning.

The creaking slowed and the low moaning became higher and higher in pitch until it broke off into a stuttering gasp.

A smile spread across Trunks’ lips.

 

 

 

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introduced my husband to DBZ recently and we'd just gotten through the hyperbolic time chamber portion when this fantasy started haunting me. I hope you enjoyed!


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